The Redemption (6 page)

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “I’m naming the baby after
you
, Jonas.”

I can’t believe my ears.

She smiles. “Because I hope he’ll grow up to be just like you one day. Sweet and smart and kind.”

I can’t remember the last time my heart has raced quite like this, if ever.

At dinner that night, I tell Dad and Josh about Miss Westbrook’s surprise visit and how she’s naming her baby after me. I’m floating on air when I tell my story, but the minute I’m done talking, I regret saying a damned thing. Clearly, Dad’s been drinking—a lot—and that’s never a good time to say a goddamned thing to him about anything at all, especially something you care about.

I grind my teeth, waiting for whatever mean thing Dad’s going to say to me to make me feel like shit. I don’t have to wait long.

“She wants her baby to grow up to be just like you?” he asks. He takes a long swig of his drink. “I guess she’s hoping for a lifetime of fucking misery and pain, then.”

Josh shoots me his usual look of sympathy. It means,
Ignore him—he’s an asshole
. But ignoring him is easier said than done.

“If she gets her wish and her kid turns out to be just like you,” Dad continues, “then she’d better watch Mr. Santorini’s back.” He laughs and swigs his drink. “That’s all I’m fucking saying.”

Sarah
 

Jonas was right all along—the Ukrainian John Travolta was indeed stalking me in broad daylight
.
But rather than believe my gorgeous hunky-monkey boyfriend when he said he was “one hundred ten percent” sure of something, I decided the more likely scenario was that he was being overprotective and hypersensitive and maybe even a tad bit crazy. Shame on me.

And, now, thanks to my utter lack of good judgment and my inability to trust him, not only did I get relieved of a good portion of my blood supply, I’ve also put the love of my life through hell. I’ve made him relive the worst horror of his childhood—and not only that, I’ve put him in danger, too. Good God, what have I done? I’ve promised The Club I can get more money from Jonas—and also from a bunch of other guys, too. But, wait, there’s more! Just in case all that wasn’t bad enough, I gave the bastards Jonas’ money—and it was a helluva lot of money, too.
 

Of course, Jonas will say the money doesn’t matter to him—he’ll say he’d pay any amount to keep me safe—but that money wasn’t mine to give
.
The whole situation is just a colossal mess—a cluster fuck, as Jonas would say.

I crawl out of bed, pull back the curtains on the window, and peek across the street. Yup. Still there. Two guys sitting in a car. They’ve been there for the past four hours. I grab my phone off the nightstand and type out a text to Jonas. “Please tell me those two guys sitting across from my mom’s place are yours. Or else I’m going to crap my pants.”

“Yes. Sorry to worry you. I should have mentioned it. They’re mine.”

I’m about to tell him the bodyguards aren’t necessary, that Jonas’ check surely bought me a little wiggle room in the they’re-coming-to-get-me department—but detailing yesterday’s run-in with the Ukrainian Travolta is a conversation I want to have with Jonas in person. “Thank you,” I type. “You always take such good care of me.”

“You’re welcome, baby. I miss you so much. How are you feeling?”

“High as a kite. Painkillers are an awesome perk of being stabbed.”

There’s a long pause. “I miss you so much,” he finally texts.

“I miss you, too.”

We’ve been apart for maybe four hours and I already feel like I’m going through physical Jonas-withdrawal. “I hope you understand,” I type. “My mom needs to be the one who nurses me back to health.” I’m about to add,
It’s a mom thing,
but then I remember Jonas’ mom, so I refrain.

And, truth be told, my mom’s desire to take care of me isn’t the only thing motivating me to stay here with her for a few days. The truth is that I need a little space—time to pull myself together and figure out what I’m going to do, what I’m going to say. I’m overwhelmed. Ashamed. Racked with guilt. I’m in pain, both physical and emotional. And most of all, I can’t believe what I’ve put Jonas through—all because I didn’t believe him. I could barely look him in the eye when my mom drove me away earlier today—I just feel so effing guilty.

“I understand,” Jonas types. “I’m so sorry,” he adds.

Why does he keep saying that? I’m the one who owes
him
an apology. If I’d had faith in him, if I’d trusted his intuition, if I’d believed him when he told me he was sure they were coming to get me, none of this would have happened. There’s no excuse for the way I disregarded him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jonas. I’m the one who blew it. Big time.”

“Can I call you right now? We need to talk. I want to hear your voice.”

I’m not ready to have this conversation yet. I’m still not sure how to explain how I feel. Plus, I’m drowsy as hell. “I just took a pain pill,” I write. “I’m pretty sleepy. Talk later?”

He pauses again. “Whatever you need,” he finally replies. “I’m here for you.”

“Thank you. Talk soon.” After a minute, I add, “Madness.” I’m overwhelmed and remorseful and groggy and in pain, sure—but nothing, not even powerful painkillers, not even guilt and remorse and emotional exhaustion, not even a couple stab wounds or a bump on the head, can change the fact that I love Jonas Faraday with all my heart.

“Madness,” he replies quickly. “So, so much.”

I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Sarah
 

The doctor told me I’d feel like myself again by day three of bed rest, and, wow, holy moly, he was right. I definitely feel like me again—a slightly beaten up version of me, true, but undeniably me. I open my laptop. Yesterday, a guy from school texted to say he’d emailed me notes from all my missed classes, and I finally feel alert enough to take a look. I click into my emails and my heart drops into my toes. There’s an email from The Club.

“Dear Miss Cruz,

“It appears there has been an unfortunate miscommunication between us. We regret any discomfort this might have caused you. Please rest assured we have now acquired full information and look forward to putting the past behind us.

“We are interested in your recent proposal and believe you would make a valuable addition to our organization in the expanded role you have suggested. However, the split shall be seventy-thirty in our favor, not fifty-fifty as originally proposed by you. This is a non-negotiable term and quite fair since we will be supplying the clients.

“We will confirm further details through a Dropbox account within the next few days. But first things first, promptly confirm that you have not released the report you’ve described to our female associate. Release of any such report to any third party, including but not limited to the agencies you’ve named, would, of course, preclude the possibility of an amicable working relationship between us.

“Sincerely,

“The Club.”

I can barely read the text of the email through my rage. Motherfuckers! They call almost bleeding me dry an “unfortunate miscommunication”? Really? Gosh, how about we sit down and talk things through?
Talking about it doesn’t mean we’re disagreeing—it means I’m going to stab you.
If Jonas were here, he’d laugh at that. Well, maybe not. You never know with Jonas.

Jonas.
God, I miss him. Three days here at my mom’s house has felt like an eternity, even in my drug-induced haze. I feel like I’m missing an arm or a leg. No, that’s not right—I feel like I’m missing my heart. I’ve never ached for another human being the way I do for Jonas right now. I physically
need
him.

Speak of the devil, my phone buzzes with a text.

“Hi, baby,” he says.

“Hi, boyfriend,” I write back. “I was just thinking about you.” We’ve texted and spoken several times over the past three days, but always briefly. Each time, I’ve told him I miss him and can’t wait to see him. Every time, he’s told me he’s sorry—for what, I don’t know. “Been keeping yourself busy?” I type.

“Yeah, went climbing with Josh yesterday. Been working on a business plan for Climb and Conquer. Hard to concentrate. I miss you too much.”

“I miss you, too,” I write. Why am I doing this to him? To myself?

“Do you need anything?”

“No, my mom is taking great care of me.” I pause. I can feel his heartbreak through the phone line. He just wants to be with me. I know he does.

“Can I call you later?” I write. “Just finishing something up.”

“Sure.”

I can feel the tightness of that word through cyberspace.

“You promise you’ll call?”

“I promise.”

I
feel
his torture. I know I’m causing him pain. Heck, I’m causing myself pain. But I don’t know how to tell him what I’m feeling. I feel guilty, ashamed. Downright depressed. I’ve put the man I love through hell. I’ve gotten him involved in something horrible and huge. And now I have to fix things, all by myself—but I don’t know how. A part of me just wants to bury my head in the sand and wish it all away.

My mom comes into the room with a steaming bowl of soup and a tall glass of ice water. I close my laptop as she approaches.

“The soup’s hot, so give it a minute,” she says in Spanish.

“Okay, thanks.”

“It’s time for your antibiotic,” she says. She looks at her watch. “And you can take another pain pill, too, if you want one.”

“No,” I say. “I think I’m done with painkillers. Maybe just an ibuprofen or whatever.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m feeling a million times better. Those pain meds make me sleep too much.”

“Sleep is how your body heals,” she says. She touches my hair. “You look much better today.”

“I feel much better.”

“Are you doing schoolwork?” she asks.

“No, just checking my emails.”

“Don’t do too much. You’re supposed to rest.”

“I’ve been resting nonstop for three days. I’m starting to go crazy.”

“Do you want me to stay in here with you? We can watch a movie.”

Gah. I love my mom with all my heart. She’s the best mom in the whole world, she really is. And this whole situation has to be her worst nightmare, even worse than what my father put her through. But oh my God, I’m going frickin’ crazy staying here with her. The woman is smothering me with motherly love. Or maybe I just want Jonas.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I say. “Give me twenty minutes to finish what I’m doing on my computer and then we’ll pick a movie.”

“Okay. Don’t do too much. The doctor said you need to rest.” She kisses my cheek and leaves.

I open my laptop again. What the hell am I going to reply to these bastards? I can’t show weakness, that’s for sure. I’ve got to buy myself more time—time to figure out a game plan. I place my hands on my keyboard again.

“To Whom It May Concern,” I type, biting my lip.

My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I grab it.
Georgia.
Wow, I’m elated Georgia’s calling me back so soon after our phone conversation yesterday. “Hi, Georgia,” I say. I didn’t expect her to get back to me so fast. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” she says. “How are
you
feeling today? Better?”

“Much better. Each day the pain gets less and less.”

She sighs with relief. “I’m so glad to hear it. So, I’ve got the information you asked for.” She sounds excited. “It was easy to get.”

Yesterday, when I called Georgia (allegedly to tell her about Belize), I asked if she’d be willing to gather a teeny-tiny bit of post-office-related information for me. When she asked me why I needed the information, I told her a watered-down version of the truth, but the truth, nonetheless: I used to work for an online dating service that I’ve recently discovered was engaged in illegal activity (the nature of which I didn’t specify), and I fear the attack on me at school might have had something to do with my discovery. “So I’m doing a little investigation to see if I’m right.”

Of course, Georgia agreed to help me, if she could, although she was understandably worried.

“Okay, here’s what I’ve been able to find out,” Georgia says. “There are twelve Oksanas with post office boxes registered in the greater Las Vegas area—Las Vegas, Henderson, Winchester, etcetera. I’ve got their full names plus the physical address each Oksana provided when she signed up for her post office box.”

“I owe you big, Georgia. Thank you. Can you email me the list?”

“Of course,” she says. “But, hey, maybe you should go to the police with all of this?”

“I gave the police a statement in the hospital.” True. “They think my attack was a random mugging.” Also true (because that’s what I led
them to believe). “Hopefully, this information will lead to something helpful for the investigation.” Also true—but helpful to whom and for what investigation I’m not exactly sure.

“Okay, just be careful,” Georgia says.

After thanking Georgia profusely and assuring her I’d be careful, we say our goodbyes—and then I sit and ponder the situation for a moment.
Twelve
Oksanas? How am I going to find the right one? Knock on each Oksana’s door and say, “Hi! Are you the Oksana who tried to kill me?”

It looks like my strongest play right now is buying myself time. What else can I do? I need time to figure out what to do next and that money I gave them isn’t going to protect me forever. I open my laptop and continue typing my reply:

“I sincerely regret any discomfort caused by our ‘unfortunate miscommunication,’ too—seeing as how it left me dying in a puddle of my own blood on a bathroom floor. To answer your question, I haven’t submitted my report to anyone yet, though it took a Herculean effort to stop it from automatically releasing to several agencies, as I’d previously arranged. Luckily, I was able to put the brakes on things at the last minute this time, but I won’t be able to stop its widespread and immediate dissemination next time—nor will I even try.
So there better not be a next time.
”